Indian food for the Soul
by InkBell
Summary: Part of a ring-around lifestyle is knowing when ti accept help from your friend. House should have known that already, but then again, it's Greg


N/A

I got the idea for this method of treatment from Flyergirl. She found something about it online and offered it up as a possible idea-carrot for my starving plot-bunnies. So, thanks Flyergirl.

* * *

The uninhabited living room filled with light, blocked only by two figures in the doorway. One, a worried and altogether nervouse looking man with a pleasant face, supporting another more brooding, weathered man on his shoulder. The weathered man held a cane in his free hand, although he knew his friend would gladly support the weight of his tired and achy body.

Wilson slid House from his shoulder to the couch, where he seemed to melt into a puddle of himself on the cushions. The encologist looked down into his friends clearly excrutiated face and sighed. There was little he could do but offer help, which was most likely **going **to go unused.

"Can you eat?" James asked, going to stand near the kitchen. "I could make you some soup or broth or something?" The man wrung his hands.

Greg covered his face with his hand. "No, thanks..." He couldn't think of anything more to say to his friend of many years, aside from_ "Can I have my pills back?" _House could however, describe how he was feeling when _Wilson came to collect him from the hospital bed after the crazy Korean mother had bludgened him; nausious, dizzy, and yet they still made him work a patients case. An internal smirk filled half his brain, they couldn't function without him._

"But you haven't eaten anything substantial in days."

"It's been two days and I'm fine."

"You were hit repeatedly with your own cane. That's not fine"

"No, it's low... She should've used her own cane."

"You know what I meant House."

The diagnostition's head ached and he no longer wished to argue. He agreed to try the soup, feeling he'd lost the battle in an otherwise useless war. When James went to make the soup, House ventured into his jacket pocket. No pills...

He checked the clutter on the table in front of him; no pills... No pills! A dull anger built up inside him; where had Wilson hidden them... or was it Cuddy? Yeah, it was most likely Cuddy; using this opprotunity to ween him of pain-killers. Even though she knew that this was the time he needed them most. In his brain he cursed her, but it throbbed to hard and he just let it die.

The old feeling of ennui came crawling back to his mind, like syrup dribbling from a bottle. The thought of something that sweet made him sick, and when Wilson finally brought the bowl and crackers back around, House could barely stand the sight of it.

"Do you know-" House began, using the tone you might take with a younger child. The anger had returned upon seeing another human walking without pain. "what happened to my pills?"

"Uhm... I'm not really sure." James told him innocently. "Did you check your coat pocket?" House didn't believe for a minute that he didn't know what was going on, and Wilson could see that plainly.

"Did Cuddy take my pills?" He pressed the issue, using the same tone as before. He knew James knew where his pills where, and he knew that it would take a lot to weedle it out of him.

" I really don't know Greg. I'm telling you the truth. I don't know who, if anyone, has your pills."

"People don't say "I'm telling the truth" unless they're lying. You pick that trick up in the third grade Jimmy. Now where are they?" House sat up shakily, looking first at Wilson, then into the soup; as though the noodles would magically spell out the location of his Vicodin.

"People say that they're telling the truth to emphasize the fact that they're not lying." Wilson told him stubbornly. _"And I really don't know where your pills are. I mean it. As far and I know, someone could've taken them out of your jacket pocket and might have them right now."_

_There was a short silance that House had the pleasure of breaking. "Like Cuddy."_

_Wilson nodded solumnly. "Like Cuddy. I wasn't any part of that. Although I did get something for your nausea." He withdrew a small bottle of tablets and set them on the messy coffee table. "They won't do anything for your pain, but they'll take the edge off your stomach." _

_Wordlessly, Greg reached for the bottle, undid the child-proof lid, and swallowed a tablet. The whole thing took a few seconds, and House melted back into the cushions. He stared at the ceilling and wondered if Lisa Cuddy really had taken advantage of him the way he'd invisioned. If so, he couldn't help but think, aside from the betrayal, that it was pretty hot._

_"If your up for it... I- I do have an idea that I heard about from a friend... if you're interested." The subject of new ideas that weren't exactly medically stable was something that Wilson knew to avoid, but he'd recieved lots of positive feed-back about this particular treatment and hoped that House didn't have the negative information to counteract it._

_"Is it some holistic chrystal-chanting crap? That's not typically your thing, but if Cuddy put you up to it you'd fold." _

"Cuddy doesn't know anything about it alright, she just took your pills. She has no idea that I even know about this. It'll help with the pain in your leg while the asperine helps your head. " James looked apprehensively down at his friend on the couch, hoping that, just for a minute or two, he might have an open mind.

Greg sighed, resting his rough ppalm against his forehead. "Alright... so long as it doesn't involve me exercising, believing, envisioning, or anything that I have to be baptized for."

"You don't even have to get off the couch."

"I like the sound of it so far."

"So, I'll go get the stuff for it and I'll explain it while I'm doing it."

Wilson dashed into the kitchen, firing up the stopve and grabbing various boxes and shakers from the spice-rack House had so richly teased him for. Now, the man looked as though he were on a mission, instead of the usual blissful hum he'd kept up while cooking. He filled the pan with some kind of red liquid and dumped several shakers into the broth. The room suddenly smelt like summer; suffocating and humid. A lot like the Indian resteraunt James had taken him to a few months back, making him spend an evening with the porciline goddess.

It did smell like... Indian food... _Why the hell was he making Indian food? I'm not going to eat it! I could barely choke down tomato, let alone chut-ni or whatever it's called! _House sat queezily and watched his friend flit about like a fickle hummingbird. He wanted to ask what he was thinking, but knew that he would get the candid "_You'll see."_

In the usual clever and cantankerous way in which Gregory House obtained information, he sat and thought of something Wilson would respond to unwittingly. He knew there would have to be a long, drawn-out coercement in order to know for sure. He'd have to play it cool and keep smooth, not letting on that he didn't want the indian food. At least, not at the beginning...

"You're not making indian food, are you? That shit hurts from mouth to ass." _So, not as cool and smooth as he'd figured, but it'd get a reaction. James Bond had time, and didn't have a friend who knew how to cook and treat cancer at the same time._

"No, well, not exactly..." was Wilson's uncertain and laughing response.

"I knew it! You know I hate indian food! You forgot, didn't you?" There really was no anger to House's tone, it was simply that he had won. Wilson, who always seemed so infaulable when it came to remembering (unfortunately), had at last forgotten!

"You don't eat it!"

"Then what do you do, shove it in your-"

"You rub it on your leg, jackass."

"What? You're insane."

"Trust me on this. You said you would earlier." Was his pathetic argument. He pulled a long gel icebag from the freezer; the kind from hospital cooling blankets, but without the electrical cooling system. "Put this on your leg. The broth's almost ready."

"I agreed before I knew all the facts. If you'd told me earlier, it would've said you were stupid. And I would've been right." He put his hand forward to show he refused the icebag. But James would have no part in his arguing. He almost literally threw the two-foot long gel pad at him and turned into the kitchen again.

House watched him go, wondering if this was the side of Wilson he was going to get now that they were.... involved? Was that the right word for it? No, involved was something that meant that you could put it on a resume, or tell a co-worker (that you hadn't held in your arms, which for House was a limited few anyway). This was something entirely differant. Greg couldn't think of what to call it. Sometimes it was romantic, or, as romantic as Gregory House could get. And other times, it was painful but nessesary; like a kidney transplant while awake. You know how real it is only after it's begun and there's no turning back once it's started.

He put the icebag gingerly on his aching leg. Ice had never helped, it only seemed to make the apendage feel stiff and useless. Nevertheless, House could recal a quote from... somewhere and everywhere concerning the "things I do for love." _Did he love Wilson? In a romantic or fraternal way? Or either one? _Now that was the question? He knew there was something, but wasn't sure what constituted as _love _anymore.

What he'd felt for Stacy was love; that was what he'd always based relationships, past and presant, off of. Some idealic quality that they're togetherness had possessed. This wasn't like what he had with Stacy, but it wasn't a bad thing. Something about it's separation from the world, it's seclusion and secrecy made it safe. Then, there was Wilson himself; warm and kind, understanding of all his faults, but unwilling to silantly stand by and let him do something immoral. Even if House got away with it in the end, Wilson was always there to say "stop, think first." He needed that!

When House's leg had become completely numb, Wilson retured with a large pot on a pot-holder, which he set on the table. After clearing some clutter, he went to go and get not only an old cloth, but a paintbrush. Greg watched him move like a spy on an entoxicatingly exciting mission. It made him smile a little to see his friend so pleased to be doing something, and then it occurred to him; Wilson didn't paint. The icebag was far too big to be convieniently stored. He'd planned this!

James returned to the room with his supplies, dipping the paintbrush in the thin, creamy broth that almost burned the nostrals, and tapping it on the side of the pot. He put the cloth beneath it and ran the brush like an artist, down Greg's leg. It did truly fill him with the same sense he assumed artists felt when they laid the first stroke on a canvas. He went back for another brush-full and lay it down in a stripe next to the first.

Almost immediately, House felt a melting sensation run down his leg, like it'd been covered in glacial ice and someone was taking a blowtorch to defrost it. A wonderful sensation really, and it took with it his thoughts of repromanding Wilson. Instead, he gave a slightly groggy and pleasant. "_you planned this.... you took my pills... liar..."_

Wilson sighed and nodded, although House's eyes were closed, he knew he'd been had. Although, it surprised him quite a lot to know his friend wasn't angry. Normally, he'd be furious by this point. Perhaps this treatment was working afteral?

Inside House's head, he could hear all that was being said, but could hardly comprehend any of it. Wilson's voice was some kind of melodic, psychodelic blurr. A wonderful comforting sing-song of confession that House could currently care less about at the moment. However, James knew that his old friend would recognize his mistake in due time.

When Wilson went to clear the formerly hot substance from Greg's leg, House felt a chill run from his knee to his shoulder. He shivered a little, and his voice was muttled by distracting in a far off frame of mind.

"You know... This is like tripping, but without the neato psychological effects...I think I'll stick to pills..."

Wilson set aside the paintbrush and folded his hands in knowing disappointment. With a mild smile, Greg raised his eyes in an almost childish "whad I do?" His mind was a little lopsided, but he could still tell that his friend was not amused.

"You see?" James asked in the responding parental tone. "This is why you go to prison and end up in emergancy rooms and stupid, stupid things like that! You need to watch what you're saying and who's around when you're saying it. Or better yet, why do it at all? There's no rush anymore, it relieves pain only tempararily, why?"

" Because I can." Was Greg's only reply before drifting off for a moment, and then returning to conciousness with random questions such as; what's for dinner? Where's my shoes? and Why is the pain coming back? The doctor sighed hopelessly, turning his face into the faintly cushioned arm of the sofa. His face was blocked from view, but the encologist could tell that a heavy depression had washed over him like a cold-front. It hung above him in mass clouds and constantly "rained on his parade".

Wilson sat gingerly on the end of the couch closest to Greg's feet, solemnly folding his hands in his lap. He'd never quite realized how depressed House truly was. Through all the witty sarcasm and shaden fraude, he was miserable; no faking... A spidery hand reached out and landed delicately on his forearm. "Greg... I never said it was a permanent cure... but it helped for..." he checked his watch. 'little over an hour. I know that's not much, but it's something."

His voice was soft, and it allowed House to bring himself up partially from his misery and at least look at Wilson directly. His pain was slowly returning, and if one had known him from before the accident, they would be able to tell that his eyes grew darker with each passing moment; reflecting within them, the mounting anguish was re-entering his body.

"I knew it wouldn't be permanent... nothing ever is. It just gets worse and worse, and there's nothing I can do... except what I've always done." House muttered, trying to keep his voice just as soft as James'. Something about the volume just seemed right; soothing, healing, relaxing. If it had been any other doctor, the man would have hobbled from the office and slammed the door with a "thanks for wasting another hour of my life." But he'd found himself fond of the encologist and chose to accept his help on the grounds that it couldn't possibly make him feel worse.

"I know..." Something compelled the lamb to lie down next to the lion. A kind of sympathetic longing possessed him to sidle next to the other man on the sofa and close his eyes. Before he knew it, there was a warm arm around his neck and shoulders and a prickling sensation on his forehead. The collective grief seemed to make the situation less awkward between men; even forming a comfertable bond that, somewhere in unconsiousness, they'd had for quite some time.

Although it had never been explored with privacy, let alone publically, an unspoken understanding grew. Between the two, so much stress and grief and hardship had passed, but also a dominating relief. Simply caused by the other's presance. Even if Wilson believed somewhere that House was truly a mad man and half of his problems were caused by his instigation; even if House believed that Wilson was often more talk than action and seldom accomplished what he set out to do, the two of them were both certain that one couldn't function without the other. Greg needed the sole comforting but somehow irking push to one side or another. James needed Greg to be submit ideas and insist that he was right... to make himself think harder and ultimately do his job better. A symbiotic relationship that effected more than a hundred lives a year!

Then, there was private life; problems outside of proffession. Stacy, Amber, Lisa, the llist just goes on. Problematic personal trials were often more troubling than any case of retanitis pigmentosa or septa-opta-displasia that crossed their medical view. Things like women and, well, rehab, tended to test their nerves and their relationship. But now, as they lay on the couch, so cozy and silent, there were no women, no psycho-anylists, drugs were nothing, life was nothing... Just a pool of sorrow that they'd stepped out of to dry off for a minute or two. In the company of the people they knew they could trust.


End file.
